High and Right
by saberivojo
Summary: John's back-story.Vietnam, Mary & raising his boys. A man's struggle with the impossible & his determination to protect his sons.This is a love story - Mary, his boys,family & friends.Sometimes he make the right decisions other times he misses the mark.


Title: High and Right

Author: Saberivojo

Genre: Gen, Some het, Pre-series

Characters, John, Mary, Sam, Dean, Bobby, Jim and Deacon

Summary: John's back-story. Vietnam, Mary and raising his boys. A man's struggle with the impossible and his determination to protect his sons. This is a love story too, both in terms of Mary, his boys and his family and friends. Sometimes he makes the right decisions, other times he's off the mark.

XXX

John spent his first few weeks in country alternating between pissing and praying.

Neither was any help.

It didn't matter that he was a kid; it didn't matter that he'd used forged documents to join up before he was even eighteen. He was a Marine and he had a job to do. His DI's stateside had tried to prepare their boys for Vietnam, but it turned out no amount of instruction, blood-curdling screams to the face, continued degradation about how they had never in a fuckload of fuck ups met recruits as dumb as shit as John's platoon could have prepared John for the cluster fuck that was the jungles of northern South Vietnam.

Mud, mosquitoes, rain, and sapper rounds. Hardly normal fair for most seventeen-year-olds.

John could almost swear his first month in country all he could smell was piss and blood. It wasn't true, of course. Sometimes death came with such ferocity that boys didn't have time to piss. Then again, they probably did but that smell just couldn't compete with the acrid order of gun smoke and the ever present scent of what John could only associate as death.

Later he would think that was a blessing. To die so fast. But much later than that he would have settled for dying and staying dead.

John settled in quick. He was good. A good tracker, a better hunter, seventeen years under his father's tutelage taught him well.

Come to think of it, Jacob Winchester ran their small Kansas farm a lot like a Marine platoon. Jacob had been a Marine and it worked for him, there was no reason to believe that military protocol wouldn't work for his boy either. John had always preferred working on engines to plowing fields, but he was his father's only son so he learned both. If a tractor went up in their neck of the woods or the old Ford truck wouldn't start, the Winchester boy was sure to know how to fix it.

Besides, Jacob Winchester may have been a farmer, but he enjoyed an engine as much as his son and he taught John early how to take care of a car or a tractor or, hell, even a motorcycle. Taking care of your own, whether it was cars, guns or your family, well, John got it honest. When the work was done on the farm, and that never seemed to be the case, he and his father spent their time under the hood of whatever car they were working on at that time. That and in the wood and fields. His dad had been frugal. If John had been sent out to hunt rabbit with six bullets, well he better come back with a rabbit for every spent round. And Jacob didn't fuck around with excuses. John had learned.

John was good with a knife, better with a rifle, and it didn't take long for word to spread in Echo 2/1 that with Winchester on point, you'd a better chance of coming back. He had a hinky sixth sense that no one could put a finger on. When Winchester raised his fist to signal a stop, not a man in the unit argued the point. Even the LT deferred to his uncanny ability to recognize an ambush, a trip wire, or hidden mine. It was spooky.

They called him The Kid. Treated him like one too. "Hey Kid, does your momma know…."

John never bothered to mention they were not much older than him. He just grinned because none of it mattered when they patrolled. None of it. Because when you were under fire, age didn't matter, skin color didn't matter, hell even sexual preference didn't matter. The only thing that mattered was keeping the unit alive for another day. They trusted the seventeen-year-old Kansas farm boy with their lives. They took care of John, too. The Kid had an entire squad of big brothers and John never once failed them. They alternately tormented him and protected him. They were Echo Company after all. They were family.

He trusted them with his life and he repaid that trust continuously. He fought alongside his brothers and he was as fearless as any. He'd been known to open himself up to fire to save a fellow Marine.

He would die for his squad and wouldn't have even bat an eye. Even earned himself a fucking Bronze Star. A lot of good it did in the jungles of Vietnam but it certainly made for some interesting jokes about how The Kid just couldn't stand to be off point. Had to be out in front, jonesing on adrenaline. It wasn't adrenaline – not really – it was self-preservation. John knew what he could do. Knew what he _had_ to do.

John Winchester didn't have a speck of yellow in him and he proved it on more than one occasion. He loved his brothers; he played card games and drank a bit, he celebrated when the boys did. But it wasn't in John's nature to socialize. The boys in Echo made fun of that, too. He was all for Semper Fi because he was a Marine and the son of a Marine, but he kept everything close to the vest. John always kept a little bit of himself hidden away and complete trust was something a Winchester didn't give lightly. He trusted Echo Company with his life but not every aspect of his life.

Except for Jim Murphy and Deacon Kaylor.

Two better friends, John couldn't have; two better bunkmates…well, maybe. Deacon snored like a freaking lion with a sinus condition and Jim, well, he was the poster child for OCD, but they worked it out. Not that they had a choice. The Marines tell you that you are bunking with someone? You are bunking with that very same person.

It didn't make a lot of sense that he hooked up with two of the least likely friends a kid could have. They called Jim, "Pastor" Jim because Jim wore his faith on his sleeve. It wasn't even overt, Jim's belief in God was intrinsic, his vision clear and he never once lost confidence in Him. No matter how bad things got, John never saw Jim question God. Not once. Jim never preached to Echo, although he was one of the most devout men John had ever met. But he had a quiet, confidence that the other boys turned to, sometimes before their own chaplain. That old adage about no atheists in foxholes seemed pretty much par for the course for everyone but John.

John didn't make excuses about his inability to believe in something he couldn't see and no one seemed to care. Not even Jim. _Especially_ not Jim.

Jim had an inner peace that John envied sometimes. John never felt it. Never. Except maybe on patrol, and then it wasn't so much inner _peace_ as inner _focus_. Every muscle and fiber of his body focused on the next step. Every sense he had directed around and in front of him. He was a fucking machine on point and there was comfort in the fact that his body was on automatic. Plus it kept the terror down. _Do the job, John. Do the job_. That was about as close to God as he ever felt.

And Deacon? Deacon was as wild as they came. Boy had been given the choice: sign up or do a stint in the county jail. And while Deacon was crazy, he wasn't stupid. Deacon in jail would have been like a coyote in a trap. He'd chew his own arm off to avoid being in prison. Besides Deacon's momma had cried at the thought of her baby boy in jail. Deacon had a soft spot for his momma so he opted for signing up. Deacon hadn't cared really; the wild boy in him thought that maybe a good fight was just what he needed.

Lord, that boy loved to fight. Deacon would take two or three boys on just to say he could. When Jim, John, and Deacon decided to paint the town red (or what passed for a town in this hell hole) there was little anyone could do to stop them. John remembered on more than one occasion, him with a black eye, Deacon with a split lip, and Jim about as disheveled as a boy could be, being dressed down by their CO. Then after the verbal tongue-lashing he pulled an old DI standby of quarterdecking and they ran up and backs for punishment for what felt like a week.

Could have been worse. But the CO was a decent sort and truthfully, sending three boys for official punishment would have hurt his unit in more than one way. Losing the best damn point man in South Vietnam because John Winchester couldn't step away from a fight? Well, that was just dumb.

Late one night while all three were drunk, Deacon had confessed that maybe jail time would have been better than the hell that was in country. At least he would have had three good meals a day and his socks would have been dry. Then John had laughed because the thought of Deacon in jail was just dumber than shit. And Jim just smiled in that all knowing, close-to-God way that always sent shivers up John's spine. It was that night that Deacon shared what he called the Pucker Factor.

John almost lost his shit then. "Pucker Factor? Jesus, Deacon have you lost your mind?"

Deacon smiled and then narrowed his eyes in what was probably the closest Deacon Kaylor could ever come to serious.

"Nope, it's the honest the God truth. True as shit – I kid you not. Pucker Factor is a physical phenomenon directly related to the amount of anticipated fear you have of being blown to shreds. The closer you are to biting the dust, well it's a proven fact your asshole will pucker up tighter than a virgin on her wedding night. Ask anybody." Deacon nodded sagely, "The asshole knows."

"So maybe that's your secret, Winchester, eh?" Deacon laughed, "You keep coming back alive 'cause you got an asshole that is super sensitive to VC? Whatcha think?"

"I think _you're _an asshole. And I think you're drunk. But the next time we are out on patrol and I feel my asshole pucker, well, I'll see if there is any correlation."

Deacon made a lewd gesture, "Yeah, pucker this, Winchester."

John had chuckled then; Pucker Factor or no, Deacon was a crazy SOB and for all John knew, Deacon was right. He figured he'd keep an eye on his asshole the next time he was walking point. That thought kind of cracked him up. Keeping an eye on your asshole just sounded just plain wrong.

Then they drank another round.

That night they woke before the ass-crack of dawn to the sound of sapper rounds – far too close to camp, and if that wasn't a cure for a hangover, John didn't know what was.

The LT yelled into their tent on the way to the closest bunker. "Drop your cocks and grab your socks boys…incoming!"

The mud in the bunker was preferable to the flying rounds; until John noticed Mitchell propped up next to him without half his head. Lucky fucker never knew what hit him but that didn't make it any easier for John. Finally, he gently pushed the dead man over into the mud facing the other way. Mitchell wouldn't feel it and John wouldn't be stuck looking at that one sightless eye.

It was just another day, another night, another dead boy.

Even though John never shied away from a fight, he was neither the wild kid Deacon was nor the pious altar boy that Jim was. John was more the quiet kid. He kept to himself, except for Jim and Deacon, and was never really happier than when he was sitting near the bunkers and tents.

There was a spot near the bunkers and close to some old oil barrels that he found he could curl up and settle his ass down in the dirt. Occasionally he could be found fondly reading letters from home. He was content there. Reading and re-reading.

Deacon did snap a picture of him once though, leaning on a hand-painted sign that read, "Lack of Nookie St." He used it relentlessly to torment John because John never partook of the local nightlife when on leave. He ignored the Vietnamese girls who were more than happy to accommodate a cute boy in uniform. For a pack of cigarettes, those whores could do things that would make a boy blush. The nights were horrible, worse than the days, and the warm body of a woman did little to help it. But Deacon found comfort there sometimes and Jim did, too. John?

Not once. Didn't mean he didn't admire them though.

And maybe he should have because _fuck_ it was hell. The steam and the heat, the smell of the crappers being burned mixing with the stench of death. Death everywhere. Even Darwin, a monkey who became a bit of a pet at camp, was found with a bullet through his head. Who the fuck kills a fucking monkey? John couldn't figure it out. Why waste the bullet? But maybe it was personal because some VC knew that Darwin was important to the boys in Echo 2/1.

There was talk of things like, "restoring government control of territory lost to the enemy since the Tet offensive," or "the counteroffensive to the Tet offensive." John heard on more than one occasion that he was involved in "Aggressive Ground Operations." John marveled at how innocuous that sounded. It meant jack shit to John and his squad.

Just more opportunities to bust their humps with 40-pound rucksacks, a rifle and the rest of the crap you needed just to survive. He hated the fucking jungle. Hated the leaches, hated the barely breathable air, hated the swarms of insects except when the drone stopped completely because hey – sometimes the fucking bugs heard the VC before he did.

It was seven kinds of hell and John couldn't wait to get stateside.

Stateside to Mary.

Deacon and Jim were his buddies and he shared things with them that no one ever knew, that no one would ever know, but it was Mary Campbell who kept him sane.

John read Mary's letters over and over. Not that other boys didn't do the same thing. A letter from home, mom, your girl, sometimes your dad, your little brother, it was a lifeline. John wasn't the only kid to wander off in the corner of some bunker reading and re-reading letters from home.

But Mary's letters? He kept them in his vest right next to his heart, folded and refolded so many times that he thought they might just rip with the stress of taking them out and reading them over and over again. So he stopped taking them out. He could recite them word for word so he didn't really need to look at them anyway. Once in awhile he would open one up and touch his hand to the slightly loopy feminine handwriting. Thank God, she wasn't one of those girls who drew hearts over her I's or anything. But it wasn't a man's writing. It was all girl and gentle and home.

Not that Mary Campbell had ever been gentle, but that was neither here nor there.

Mary Campbell was an enigma that was for sure. They grew up Lawrence together and had been in the same grade since kindergarten. Mary's folks lived not too far from the Winchester farm. Mary Campbell with her blonde pig tailed hair, a smattering of freckles across her nose and a temper.

Lord, that girl had a temper.

One of the worst spankings he'd ever gotten in his young life had been due to Mary Campbell. He'd said something mean, that was true and even at eight he'd known you didn't say that to a girl. But he hadn't expected the left hook that smashed his nose with such force that his button down was covered in blood in seconds. His following sharp right jab had been gut instinct and blackened her eye. Well, not at first – at first just that reddish, purple instant bruise that was sure to be a humdinger of a black eye in no time at all.

Mary had sniffled once and then proceeded to kick his ass until Mr. Weatherby pulled the screaming she-devil off John.

It hadn't mattered that she'd thrown the first punch; his father didn't hold with his son hitting a girl and the ass whippin' had hurt more than the bloody nose. It took months for him to forgive her for that one, and even then he really didn't. He never hit her again though even when she baited him relentlessly. And she did.

Apparently, it turned out that girls could hit boys anytime they wanted to and Mary Campbell took great glee in punching his shoulder whenever the opportunity presented itself. She was a little thing, but strong and if John hadn't known any better, he'd swear the girl took boxing lessons. From first grade to fifth he had a perpetually bruised right shoulder. The only good thing was that she was a C and he was a W which meant in line up he was as far from her swing as possible.

In sixth grade, though, something changed. She stopped wearing pigtails and while she still had a wicked punch there were less of them that came his way. One day in English class he noticed Mary's blonde hair was more gold than yellow. Her smirk was more a smile. She cocked her head and the light streamed through the window and she was enveloped in what looked like a freaking halo. Mary Campbell was beautiful. Then he surprised himself by asking her to the sixth grade dance. He was even more shocked when she accepted.

Mary's father was a mean old coot and if John was honest, he scared him just a bit. Even more than his old man, who could be mean as shit too. But John's father had driven them up to Mary's house and despite knocking knees he'd shaken Mr. Campbell's hand and yes, sired him with as much politeness as possible.

It didn't seem to make a difference; Mr. Campbell had glared…._glared_ at the twelve-year-old like he was a mass murderer. Mrs. Campbell had shushed her husband and offered John a soda, but one look at Mr. Campbell changed his mind about that.

"No thank you ma'am…my dad's waiting in the car."

But Mary had blown down the steps and out the door with a "Bye Daddy" and a peck on his cheek as if dealing with the devil incarnate was a day in the life for her. She was wearing a blue skirt that flowed around her knees and swirled with some kind of gauzy material that he couldn't figure out for the life of him. Especially since he had never seen her out of jeans. Then there was a blouse that was kind of poufy and white that showed that Mary Campbell did indeed have breasts. Small and perky and just perfect. John blushed at the thought of Mary and her boobs and hoped to hell Mr. Campbell didn't see how his eyes couldn't help but glance in that direction.

They hadn't even kissed at the dance, not once. John liked to think it was because he was being a gentleman but the truth of it was he was wary of her nasty left hook. Just because she was wearing a skirt it would in no way, shape or form affect her arm strength. He did hold her right hand but he justified that because she was even stronger with her right than her left so it made sense. He figured if he was holding her hand there was less of a chance of her nailing him with it.

But after the dance, while waiting for his dad to pick them up, in the shadows of the school parking lot, he decided to give it a shot. He clenched his shoulder for the punch that never came.

It was the first time they kissed. No tongue – French kissing seemed a little gross to John and a little scary, but her lips were sweet, soft and she tasted like strawberry lip-gloss. There was a breathy moan and John wasn't sure if it came from him or her but it didn't matter.

From that day on he was hopelessly in love with Mary Campbell.

XXX

Mary had been pissed when John joined up. Pissed enough that she nailed not only his right shoulder but his left as well. At least she didn't sock him in the nose and for that he was eternally grateful. She did, however, swear that if he didn't come back in one piece she was going to go to Vietnam herself and kick whatever was left of him to hell and back.

John didn't doubt her a bit.

And then she cried. For Mary to cry? Well, that broke his heart. Her tears soaked his red flannel shirt and he held her tight and let her sob.

"John Winchester, I swear to God, you come back to me. You come back to me or I will never forgive your sorry ass." And then almost as an afterthought she whispered low, "I didn't sign up for this – I wanted no more fighting." John didn't get it. He and Mary didn't fight. That thought was forgotten though when Mary started crying, deep soul wrenching sobs with halting breaths that ended in soft sniffles.

"I'm coming back to you, Mary…I promise." He murmured soft and low into hair so golden it took his breath away. There was that smell that was his Mary, kind of like sunshine and woman and something so deep and earthy that it made him want to bury his head into her neck never leave.

They made love the first time that night, both virgins both scared, and both so eager to fuck that it was a miracle tab A made it into slot B. And yet John never forgot that first time, the thrill of sex, the anticipation, the absolute love that he felt when he rocked into Mary for the first time. He was gentle, so gentle but he wasn't at all surprised when Mary grabbed his hips and bucked into his thrust like she was made for this. That _they_ were made for this. It was as if he had waited his whole life just to be with this girl. This woman.

The month before he left was one of the finest of his life. Late night trysts with Mary…in the barn, in the woods and once in broad daylight laughing as the sun danced off the golden strands of wheat that almost matched her hair. If he didn't make it back to this girl, he had no idea what he would do. Short of dying, he would find his way back to her.

And John Winchester wasn't going to die in some VC rice paddy.

XXX

Coming home to the world was not what he expected nor when. Everyone counted their DEROS (date eligible to return overseas) but thanks to a lucky shot from a Vietnamese kid maybe even younger than himself, John found himself going home sooner rather than later. Deacon had shoved John at the last moment and the bullet aiming for his heart had hit his shoulder instead. Deacon had finished off the kid in less than a heartbeat and John was under no illusion that Deacon saved his life that day. It seems The Kid's run of luck ended abruptly.

Although it was a through and through, if Deacon hadn't been there to keep him from bleeding out, John might not have made it. Oddly enough it didn't hurt all that much, not until Deacon jammed some gauze or something front and back and held it there. He pulled John up put of the mud scrambling for cover, dragging John until a medic could take over.

Deacon swore to John then. "Dumb motherfuckin' Kid." Then, "You die Winchester and I'll haunt your sorry ass, I swear I will."

The whole time Deacon made sure as much of John's blood stayed inside where it belonged. Strangely enough, John thought it had to hurt – not the bullet hole in his shoulder because that was a given, but all the pressure Deacon had to be exerting by jamming his hands and gauze into his shoulder front and back. John could feel Deacon's arms tremble with the effort. It took forever for a medic to find them, but Deacon didn't stop till John was safely in his hands. The medic looked at Deacon like he was some kind of hero – like keeping all that inside blood inside had made all the difference in the world. Deacon had just grimly smiled and told him to take care of his boy.

"Hey Deacon…,"John panted through the pain in his shoulder – it hadn't felt that bad while Deacon was holding him, but suddenly the raw nerve endings started screaming. "When did I become your boy?"

"You've always been my boy." Deacon grinned as he maneuvered a bit to give the medic room to work.

John felt a little lightheaded. Was it blood loss or did the medic have good drugs? John wasn't sure. "Deacon, guess what?" John asked half dazed.

"Yeah, John." Deacon pulled a blanket around John. A blanket? John didn't know why but he was shaking all over. Shock? Was it shock?

"I never felt the asshole pucker."

Deacon smiled clapped John on the good shoulder. "Always the smartass. Seeya in the world, John."

XXX

They choppered John out and patched him up, then, since he was not considered battle worthy, John was shipped stateside. He'd been counting the days to home, but now it just seemed wrong. John was pissed when he stepped on to the tarmac at Camp Pendleton. Deacon and Jim were still fighting and John wasn't there to walk point for them. It worried a man.

In Lawrence, everything was too quiet. There was no shrapnel to duck, no mortar rounds, even the insects were quiet. John was so ingrained to listening for that lack of incessant hum as a precursor to VC attacks that he found himself jittery with nervous energy just taking a walk outside. He found out that breathing was oddly easy though. He wasn't sure if it was because he wasn't constantly worried about laying his head down on a pillow at night or if it was because the air itself wasn't like breathing under water. In country was like that, so humid that every breath was like sucking through a straw, wet and gurgling. He had hated that.

The only time he allowed himself to think of the war was at night and even then it was only in dreams. Nightmares when he woke sweaty and cussing in Vietnamese. His father, never demonstrative, would step quietly into his room and offer a cool rag to his forehead and hand to his shoulder. But they never spoke about it. Not the war. Not how they felt. Nothing. John didn't expect it either. Winchesters weren't big on talking about their feelings. But he accepted the warm hand on his shoulder and nodded his appreciation. It was the best he could do.

By all accounts he was still Jacob Winchester's boy. Still polite to a fault. A little bit of a local hero because in Lawrence, John Winchester was one of their own. He didn't buy a single beer his first month back home. His town knew John. Purple Hearts and Bronze Stars meant something to most of the people in his town.

The boy even came back a Corporal. Jacob Winchester was privately pleased. He continued to be act normal, handing John a wrench and working on an old Chevy they had found but Jacob walked a little straighter, added just a bit of swagger to his step. Sure, his boy was in Echo 2/1. That was_ his_ boy. John smiled at that because Dad wasn't much on praise and in typical Midwest fashion did little more than grin a bit harder when someone mentioned John's name.

John didn't get it; didn't much care. He drank his coffee at the local diner. Shook hands and accepted congratulations. He went through the motions. He put on his game face during the day. Because he was a Winchester and that's what Winchesters did. They did what they did and shut up about it. It felt good to see his Dad. Good to be home and even though he was worried about his buddies in country, he was happy for a bit.

Mostly because of Mary.

Mary was the shining light that he had waited for. She was more beautiful than he remembered. Sunshine couldn't compete with that golden hair. Her skin was a little bronzed from sun and he could have spent entire days kissing everyone freckle he found. He never felt safer than when she was curled against his chest, her body soft and smooth and her breathing—Christ, even her _breathing_ was like music. He would listen until he was sure she was sleeping, her head nestled against his arm. Watching the gentle rise and fall of her breast, her breath light against his skin. Her body warm. So warm.

She amazed him. She was both the most gentle woman he had ever met, soft pliant and willing and yet tougher than any _person_ he had ever met. He could never tell exactly who he would make love to at any given time…which was half the fun of it.

Mary talking dirty and whispering things that a girl shouldn't even know about in his ear. Mary sweet and easy, all kitten kisses and soft sighs. Mary gasping hard, legs wrapped so tightly around his hips that his own shudder could barely be felt. Then her back softly curved and every muscle in her belly clenching with the sheer effort. Because Mary put every piece of her heart and her soul in every love making session.

She was perfect.

He bought the ring at a local jeweler. It wasn't much but a mechanic—and sometimes farmer—didn't make a lot. It didn't matter. Mary Campbell was going to be Mary Winchester and John was going to be the happiest man alive.

XXX

The blur following Mary's parent's deaths was almost surreal. It was as if there was something he missed. John Winchester, who prided himself on following the plan, and having back-ups for back-ups. John Winchester, who remembered almost to a fault every circumvented booby trap in country, oddly enough went through their deaths and funerals in a haze.

He never hated Samuel Campbell. Hell, even though he was a surly sonofabitch, the man raised the girl he loved. John had certainly never wanted him to die. And Deana Campbell? Well, she was about as nice as they came. Understandably, Mary took it hard, but she had a determination in her eye that he never really noticed before. He knew she wasn't a coward; had known that all his life, but she showed bravery that he wasn't quite sure about. Couldn't quite put a finger on. They married right away and sold the Campbell place and got a house of their own.

Soon after John found out he was going to be a dad. That really scared him. The Kid having a kid. Terrifying. But Mary was a serene as any mom to be could be. John remembered distinctly before Dean was born, Mary's wistful look as she rubbed her rounded belly. John loved Mary and her pregnant body. At night he would cup her full breast and gently trace his fingers over her belly. He would feel his son kick – strong and fierce. It was a boy; John knew it with every ounce of his being. Mary would giggle sometimes and other times she would just relax into his hands. It was a miracle.

They were going to be a family.

XXX

Dean Winchester. It had a nice ring to it. Solid name for a solid boy.

John loved Dean. The kid was all mouth and freckles and just as hot tempered as his mother. He loved as hard as he played, laughed as hard as he pushed, and spent the first four years of his life doing his damndest to torment his mother and father. But he was never sneaky or mean. He climbed like a damn monkey – a specific incident caused John a boatload of shit when he was "watching" Dean and Mary caught the boy on top of the china cabinet.

John had tried his sweetest smile then a slow and chagrinned look that never failed to work on Mary, but the expression on her face told him he was in hot water no matter what. When Mary looked like that a man just naturally caved. Then he scolded Dean. Dean just grinned and said he was like Batman and Batman needed a graplin' hook but all Dean Winchester needed was a chair and a toehold.

It ended in time outs for both of them. Dean in the corner nursing a sore butt and John sleeping on the couch for the night. John thought that Dean got the better end of the deal.

One night, John's dad died of a heart attack. Quick, easy and painless, they said. The farm was mortgaged to the hilt so the bank took it. John didn't much care; he and Mary had their little house in Lawrence and John scrimped and saved enough to be part owner in a garage. He and Mike Guenther made good enough partners. He worked hard.

John couldn't ask for more. Mary, Dean, and a job he loved.

Then came Sammy and turned everyone's life around. Sammy who slept all-day and stayed up all night. Sammy who spent the first month of his life colicky and crying. They took turns walking the floor with that gentle bobbing motion that all new parents seem to know intrinsically helps calm a newborn. It did nothing for Sammy. Even Mary couldn't console him.

Oddly enough Dean did. They often found him curled in Sammy's crib, his body around the sleeping baby like a security blanket. Dean never complained. Not about Sammy's crying, or the sleeplessness, but he hadn't expected Sammy to be THAT much of a baby.

"When's he gonna play ball, Dad? All he does is cry and poop."

John had laughed and ruffled a hand through Dean's blond hair. "It takes a while for babies to grow that big, but until then, you just keep doin' what you're doin', son."

And Dean did. When Sammy sat up, Dean sat for hours patiently building blocks with him or rolling balls. When Sammy started crawling and scooted, Dean crawled and scooted with him. Pretending they were the good guys in the war. Crawling through the underbrush. Snipers, Dad had called them. Dean was gonna be a sniper and Sammy, too, even if Sammy drooled a lot and grossed everyone out.

Sometimes, late at night, John would leave the warmth of Mary's and his bed and sneak a peek at his sons. Dean, in his room, surrounded by Legos and dinosaurs and a stuffed teddy bear that bore the brunt of a rough little boy. Then a quick look at the nursery. It was funny, John found he had to move with as much stealth as he did in Vietnam. His baby boy seemed to like nothing better than finding a reason to be up all night and a creaky floorboard was as good an excuse as any. But John liked to think he could outfox a baby and added incentive was not being up all night walking the floor with his youngest. He would stand over Sam's crib and gently touch his calloused hand to the fine downy hair. Sammy, who smelled like baby shampoo and powder, never stirred. Ooh-Rah, he would think. Sometimes it was all he could do not to pick the sleeping baby up and breathe in that scent.

His boys. His family.

He would find his way back to Mary and curl up behind her, pull her tiny body against his larger one. Sometimes she woke with a startled yelp that turned into a breathy moan. It was so easy to love her, so easy to have her gasping with his fingers and tongue and he in return never failed to come. Deep and hard and then they would go back to sleep, sometimes him softening while in her. No nightmares, no worries – just the deep sleep of a contented man.

He couldn't ask for anything more.

John loved Lawrence, or thought he did, but when the opportunity came for him to make big money up north fishing, well, he just had to give it a try. The garage could hire part time help for a few months; the money he would make would more than make up the difference.

Mary was a lioness.

"No, John. We are not having this conversation again. Think about what? You have two boys at home." In hushed tones over the phone. Then Mary's furious, "Fine then don't. There's nothing more to talk about."

Then the slam of the phone in his ear. But John was just as stubborn as Mary – a nest egg, just a little more money so he could maybe even buy out Mike. Be sole owner of the garage. Be his own man.

So he left; it was justified.

Mary didn't understand that this was for her own good, for his boys, for his family. Sometimes a man had to do unpopular things for the sake of the people he loved. She would forgive him when he came back with cash in hand. He made it to Oregon before he came to his senses. He needed to be there for his sons. He needed to be there for his wife.

He called Deacon – not that he needed to air out his dirty laundry, but more because he knew Deacon would tell it to him straight. Deacon did. In no uncertain terms, John needed to drag his ass back to his girl and hope she would take him back. The conversation ended with Deacon's threat of his own blanket party with John as the recipient. John didn't doubt that Deacon would call Jim and the ass kicking he was sure to receive would most definitely result in some type of permanent damage, if not to his body than certainly to his manhood.

He came back of course, apologetic and begging for forgiveness. John wasn't much for begging but he wasn't above it either. He actually knocked on the door of their tiny house, even though there was a key in his pocket. Mary kept him waiting on the front stoop for a while, in fact, he finally settled himself on the steps his finger nervously twisting his wedding ring. Eventually, the door opened and Mary stepped out on the porch, a bathrobe wrapped around her slender body. He stood and turned toward her quietly apprehensive. John met her eyes and then dropped his own shamefacedly. A moment later he squared his shoulders and looked at her again. This was his wife and John Winchester was not a coward. John took a tentative step in her direction and that was all that needed to be done. Mary was in his arms and he was breathing in her scent and murmuring soft apologies and nonsense words into her neck. John was home. What made him think that anything was worth losing her? He didn't know what he would do if he ever lost Mary.

But he lost her anyway.

XXX

Nothing was the same. Dean stopped talking. Sammy did nothing but wail for his momma. John could barely keep it together - just enough to feed Sammy his milk and make sure Dean ate.

John didn't eat at all.

And all the time, through all that shit, there was stuff gnawing at him, restless dreams that seemed far too real, crap that made 'Nam seem like a walk in the park.

His wife's burning body eviscerated _on the ceiling. _

Then there were the looks of his neighbors and friends. Poor man, lost his wife in a fire. Taking care of those two boys on his own. Tsk, tsk, tsk. There were headshakes and offers of tuna casseroles. What the fuck did a tuna casserole do about or with anything?

And through it all John said almost as little as Dean. He felt he had no one but his boys. Losing Mary the way he had changed everything. John couldn't talk about it, couldn't think about it and yet it consumed him. Sometimes late at night he would reach for the phone and think about calling Deacon or Jim. But what could he say? That Mary had been killed by something? That she died pinned to the ceiling? No, they wouldn't understand. Hell, John didn't understand and so he kept to himself. He took care of the boys often falling asleep with Dean curled in the lee of his right and Sammy between them both but there was a constant gnawing in his gut. It was not right. _ This_ was not right. And John didn't lie. Not to himself anyway. What happened to Mary? It wasn't normal, it was not natural, and there was no way he _wasn't_ going to figure it out.

It turned out the truth was far worse than anything his imagination could spawn.

Psychics and spirits and demons.

John couldn't wrap his head around it. He just didn't get it. He was born on a farm. He believed what he saw with his own two eyes. He trusted himself and the handgun he had taken to carrying at the small of his back. Demons? Fucking _ghosts_? That shit just wasn't real. It couldn't be real. But John _did see_ how Mary died; now he couldn't _un_see. The crazy rantings of a psychic did little to allay his fears; in fact, they became worse.

Something was after him and his family.

Vietnam taught John how to fight. Mary's death taught him how to kill.

XXX

John barely remembered the first few months after Mary's death. One thing he knew for sure, he couldn't live in Lawrence. There was nothing there for him except the smell of burning flesh and memories that if allowed himself to think about too much – well, it wasn't good. The information he got from Missouri was just enough to make him absolutely sure he needed to leave Lawrence and find out what killed his Mary. He sold his half of the shop to Mike. It gave him enough spending money so that he didn't have to work for a while. How could he work as a mechanic when there was something out there after his boys?

He couldn't depend on anyone but himself. Himself and a little kid – because Dean anchored him and gave him a purpose. Sammy did too, but he was a baby. It was Dean he turned to and he hated that he did. But it was what it was. He shouldn't expect Dean to continue to comfort Sammy. He did it though; it was the only thing that worked. There was little solace in that – making his five-year-old be a momma to his youngest. Just a little bit of him died each time Sammy went to Dean instead of him, but it was easier and heaven help him, he needed as much _easy_ as he could get.

The only thing he was sure of was that whatever killed his Mary could easily be hunting his boys. There was no way in Hell he would let anything touch his kids. He researched whatever he could whenever he had access to a library, but the results at best were conflicting and indecipherable. He and the boys moved around a lot. Motels, a small stint at an apartment here and there, and more than once they slept in the Impala.

John recognized paranoia when he saw it in himself. The salt. The firearms. The constant moving. But he didn't see a way around it. He drank a little too much, slept hardly at all, and all the time he scouted out anything and everything. He was constantly walking point—his sixth sense cranked up to eleven—the only problem being that he never got relived. There was no one to take over and let him fall back to the middle of the platoon. There was no CO to take responsibility. There was no back up. It was John Winchester and two small boys.

John knew the situation wasn't good for the boys but he did the best he could. How could he just _pretend_ none of it happened? How could he get a job, hire a babysitter and expect things to be the same? It was up to John to hold on to his boys and keep them as safe as possible.

For some reason, moving seemed important. As long as he and the boys were moving, they would stay alive.

It occurred to him he thought that in 'Nam too. Movement was life. Keep moving, keep fighting, and lay low when you had too. So he laid low too, trying to stay off anyone's radar. It wasn't hard, really. They paid in cash and left little behind in their wake.

On warm days he would find a playground where he spent the day with Sam in the sandbox and Dean listlessly playing on playground equipment. He tried to engage Dean, but that active little boy was gone and in his place a somber pale reflection of the boy he used to be. Oh, he listened and when John encouraged him to use the monkey bars or slide down the slide he did. It was if he was on automatic pilot and only John or Sammy could break through.

Sammy learned to walk in a campground outside of Yuma. But Dean still barely spoke. For the longest time, he wouldn't talk at all. No amount of comforting or threats would get Dean to speak. He just nodded silently or shook his head. In retrospect, John learned a lot about his silent five year old. Learned his tells and body language. It was all he had to go on.

Finally, John figured it out…Sammy.

"Dean, buddy…we have to help Sammy talk. He's a smart little guy, but he doesn't talk like you used to when you were his age. Do you think you could help me help Sammy learn to talk?"

Of course, it was Sammy who turned Dean around.

If Sammy couldn't talk and Dean wasn't helping? Well, shame on Dean. Of course, John didn't _say_ that, but he saw it in Dean's eyes. Dean was Sammy's big brother. It was his job to take care of Sammy.

So Dean started talking to Sammy. From there it wasn't a huge leap to talk to John.

But Dean never said a word about the night Mary was killed. Never.

XXX

John eventually found himself at Jim's rectory. Why he opted to turn to Jim instead of Deacon, he couldn't be sure. Maybe it was because Jim believed in a higher power. Maybe John needed the reassurance that although he didn't believe in God, at least Jim did. So he drove Blue Earth, Minnesota to see a man he hadn't seen since he officiated his and Mary's wedding.

Oddly enough, Jim didn't seem surprised. John carried the boys to Jim's small guest bedroom and in no time at all they were in bed: Sammy sucking his thumb and Dean curled protectively around his brother like a cocoon. He covered them with a quilt, no doubt sewn by one of the old ladies in Jim's flock.

The word flock bothered him for a moment. He was not part of a flock. He was not a fucking sheep. The wolves might be circling but fuck them. He was John Winchester and he wouldn't go down without a fight.

Jim and John sat in the tiny kitchen each drinking coffee laced liberally with whiskey.

John told it to Jim for the first time. All of it. It was hard to talk about it but this was Jim. _His_ Jim. A little older, a little wiser but the same man who fought with him side by side in that hellhole of a war.

Jim was the voice of reason in a world that was so unreasonable that John couldn't wrap his head around it sometimes. John couldn't help but remember theological discussions with Jim – they always wound up with John pissed and Jim quietly steadfast.

Jim listened though. He was always good at that. Finally, when John was done and the coffee cold, he spoke quietly, "John, did you really expect me to believe in God and _not_ believe in Hell as well? It's been well documented through the years. Exorcisms, demons, angels, horrible, horrible spirits in every culture, in every part of the world. Can everyone be wrong?"

That struck John. He hadn't thought about it really. God? Belief in God was hard to come by if He let things like Mary's death go unpunished. But if there was a God, that than why not a Hell? Why not a place where demons lived and angry spirits moved in between.

It was then that John realized what Jim was really saying. Jim, one of his oldest friends, was aware of the supernatural and that he played his own part in the fight against evil.

It turned out that not only did Jim believe, he was an active participant in hunting. Pastor Jim Murphy was a hunter. Jim – quiet, gentle Jim – freshened up John's coffee and then showed him a secret room deep beneath his church filled with guns and knives. John almost didn't believe it. But then again how could he not? This was Jim Murphy.

Jim who never wavered in his faith in God knew what was out there. He took the path of _God helps those who help themselves _and somehow, some way, his mission as a man of God never conflicted with his mission as a hunter.

There was relief and disbelief and closure all found at Jim Murphy's kitchen table and in that basement.

John, never one for philosophical discussions, found himself back in Jim's kitchen silent tears rolling down his face. His wife had been murdered. Murdered by something so insidious that even the Catholic Church believed in it. A demon. His wife had been killed by an evil so ancient that it was discussed in the damn Bible. It was almost more than a man could handle.

John dragged a hand down his face and wiped the tears away. They were replaced by a grim, determined scowl. John didn't care what was after his family, it was going to have to go through John Winchester to get them. He fingered his wedding ring, the gold warmed by his hand and so much a part of him that it settled in a pale groove along his left hand ring finger.

It was the last time he really cried over Mary.

In typical Jim fashion, there was very little in terms of platitudes but he did call it as he saw it.

"I don't know what His plan is John. I don't know how I'm going to be a part of it. But I know that if my part is to give comfort to those who need it and to kill any thing that defiles His name. Well then, that is what I will do."

John marveled at how Jim could be so sure, so un-wavering in his truth, in his commitment. It didn't occur to John at the time that he was just as un-wavering.

Then Jim handed him a note. It had one name on it and an address.

Bobby Singer. Sioux Falls, South Dakota.

"See Bobby; he can help."

XXX

John didn't know what to expect when he met Bobby Singer. He was a little older than John and lived in junk yard but that didn't faze John one bit. The fact that he met them on the front porch with a sawed off and a big brindle mutt was a bit awkward. The gun wasn't trained on him but the intent was evident. John could hear the low warning rumble of the dog from where he stood in front of the porch. Long strands of drool hung from pendulous jowls and truthfully, John never recollected seeing a beast quite as intimidating outside of the supernatural. John easily moved his body between Bobby , the dog and the boys. It was a casual but obvious gesture: his children were going to be protected. John mentioned Jim's name, though, and that seemed to do the trick. "That'll do, Dog." Bobby spoke and dropped a hand to the massive head. The dog stopped growling but continued to stand quietly next to Bobby as if he was not quite sure that his master was calling this one right.

"They yours?" Bobby nodded a baseball-capped head at the boys. Dean was clutching Sammy's hand. Sammy stood silently next to his brother.

John knew they looked a little worse for wear. The boys had been on the road for days and despite John's desperate attempts to teach Sammy how to use the head, the kid was more stubborn than a mule and that just plain wasn't happening. He needed a diaper change; John wouldn't have changed the kid in the last rest stop unless he had a gallon of bleach to disinfect the bathroom they were in. The Impala wasn't much better for Sammy's condition either. Dean was a bit grubby too. Keeping two boys out of dirt or trouble while on the road was a challenge.

John nodded.

"Well, bring 'em in. We'll talk."

Oddly enough one of the first things Bobby did was offer John a beer. John felt a little embarrassed at how quickly he nodded. He was tired and the beer was cold. John swallowed half it down in one gulp and then asked if he could take the boys to the head.

Singer mumbled something about a day care center, but showed them to the bathroom and John cleaned both boys up as quickly as he could. He could smell food cooking, and by the time he was back, Bobby Singer had coffee, paper plates, scrambled eggs, bacon and a couple glasses of milk at the kitchen table.

Bobby nodded again, this time at Sam. "Boy's old enough for scrambled eggs, I'd reckon."

John nodded his agreement and then settled the kids in for breakfast. It felt good to be sitting at a table. More than that though, there was something about Bobby Singer that felt right somehow. The man was grumpier than old Samuel Campbell and he had a house that, for want of a better word, looked like a library had exploded. But it was a _house_ and John only had a car – so that certainly wasn't the measure of a man.

John glanced around the kitchen, it was functional though rough, a bit like Bobby Singer, John expected. The huge dog looked like it could have eaten both boys for breakfast and then chomped some more on John but the brute sprawled at Bobby's feet, leaving a trail of slobber slime on the kitchen floor. John figured a dog couldn't be wrong.

So yeah, John Winchester let Bobby Singer into his life based on the fact that the man fixed him scrambled eggs, offered him a beer, was a friend of Jim Murphy's and was loved by a dog.

XXX

Bobby was a strange one and that was a fact. The boys seemed to like him and whenever they stopped in, they were welcome. Bobby was "Uncle Bobby" to the boys, ready to play a game of catch or maybe teach a little Latin. Bobby had a thing for languages and if there was anything that John was grateful for it was that Bobby kind of pushed the boys on that. Bobby was a curmudgeon and as cantankerous as some of his mutts but John knew how much he cared about the boys.

Bobby served in 'Nam too. Once in a while they would swap a war story or two in the wee hours of the morning. It occurred to John that there was a reason old men played checkers and reminisced about their war stories. There was something comforting in that shared past experience that opened the door for automatic friendship. And Bobby was his friend…the only real new one he had in the past 20 years. But neither John nor Bobby pretended that their friendship wasn't based on need. John needed information and Bobby was a wealth of knowledge. What the man didn't know in his head, he could find in his books. John never did figure out the system the man used – it was if Bobby had some kind of crazy card catalog in his head.

It wasn't until much later in John's life that John realized that Bobby needed the Winchesters too.

Once in a while Bobby pissed John off or maybe John pissed him off. That didn't surprise John at all because he knew he could irritate the hell out of everyone except Jim Murphy and Deacon. Usually, though, he and Bobby fought about the boys.

Bobby was never one to keep his opinions to himself.

"John, you should settle down some, give the boys a chance to be kids. They need some roots. "

"Roots? They have roots – they have family. What they need is me, each other and to be ready for what ever happens. That's what they need."

John growled low to himself. Damn Bobby Singer. Singer was _Uncle_ Bobby. He didn't have the same responsibilities John did. He wasn't the one who nursed Dean's 104 fever when the kid was six. He wasn't the one who made Sam toe the line when it came to training. No, Bobby was downtime and working with cars and hanging out in a dusty junkyard with a damn dog.

"Can't we have a dog, like Uncle Bobby, Daddy?_" _Sam had said with his tousled hair and dark pleading eyes.

"No, Sam. We can't have a damn dog." Sam had sulked but sulky Sammy wasn't all that unusual.

John couldn't compete with puppies and play but he didn't want to either. It wasn't his job. Bobby Singer cared about the boys and, reluctantly, John could never say differently, but John had to look at the big picture.

No one ever said fatherhood was easy.

XXX

Moving was always hard on Sammy, except for when he was real little. Until Dean started school, their nomadic lifestyle never seemed matter much to him, but once Dean was gone half the day, Sammy hated it. The kid never wanted to leave whatever town they were in.

John tried. He did. But the more he learned about hunting the more he knew he had to stay involved and therefore had to keep moving. Dean never cared; he must have inherited his father's wanderlust. Or maybe he just knew too much.

That bothered John too. He didn't ever really remembering sitting Dean down and telling him there were monsters out there, Dean just knew. How much had he seen the night Mary died? John never asked; he was a fucking coward sometimes. He _should _have asked. But Dean never spoke of it and John never initiated the conversation.

It wasn't quite the white elephant in the room because Mary's death was hardly new news. Still, John wondered sometimes. Usually those musings ended with John and a bottle of Jack. He was careful, though, he never got too drunk and he was always there for the boys.

Except when he wasn't.

XXX

John had guns around, but he'd _always_ had guns.

He had grown up shooting and learning to handle firearms would probably have been in the cards for the boys no matter what. Early on, John made sure both boys knew firearms safety. There was no wiggle room in it. Guns were tools and dangerous and neither boy had better touch a firearm without John watching. He explained it, he never took it for granted and he swore to them both that they would find themselves ass over tea kettle getting their butts roasted if it ever happened. He never had to make good on the threat but that didn't mean that the boys weren't interested.

Especially Dean.

John was cleaning the Mossberg when Dean came in the kitchen and stood uncertainly in the doorway, hands in his pockets looking wistfully at the gun.

"C'mere, son." John nodded in Dean's direction and the boy almost bounced to his side, but he kept his hands in his pockets and watched. Just watched.

"Good, boy." John nodded approvingly, "Wanna help?"

"Uh huh." Dean answered and stepped a little closer.

"You mean, yes, sir?" John prompted gently.

Dean grinned and blushed simultaneously. John couldn't help but smile back at the gap-toothed seven year old. The boy was a charmer that was for sure.

"Yes, sir." Dean agreed happily.

"Well what do we have here, Dean? "

"Sawed off."

"You know why it's called that?"

Dean giggled low. "'Cause you sawed it off a bigger gun, Dad."

"Yeah, yeah I did. Makes it easier to handle. It can be concealed a helluva lot easier, too. You don't need to field strip it every time you shoot it, but you do need to clean it every time. Gunpowder is corrosive. Do you know what that means?"

Dean shook his head.

"It means that it can eat away at the metal in the shotgun. So you use this patch with gun-cleaning solvent and run it through the bore." John demonstrated carefully and then handed both the gun and the tool to Dean.

Dean held it almost reverently.

"What are you going to do with it?" John asked.

"Clean it?"

"Nope, you are going to assume it's loaded."

Dean rolled his eyes. "It's not loaded, Dad. I just watched you clean it."

"Doesn't matter. You assume it's loaded. You check to make sure there are no rounds in the chamber, you make damn sure that gun is not loaded. I better never see you handle any firearm carelessly. Secondly, never point that muzzle at anything you aren't prepared to destroy. Remember, wherever that muzzle is pointed, that's where the round is going to go. You point a gun down or you point it up. There's advantages and disadvantageous to both, but either way is safer than carrying it pointing outwards. You keep your finger off the trigger unless you are prepared to shoot. If you are going to shoot, you make sure you know what you are shooting at. If you are shooting at something or someone, you make damn sure you are going to kill it. Got it?"

Dean nodded solemnly.

John took the gun back from Dean and then handed it to him again. He was gratified to see him point the Mossberg at the ground, and then carefully follow his father's instruction with regard to checking to see if it was loaded. Dean's tiny hands followed his father's directions exactly.

Dean wrinkled his nose at the smell. "Smells like you, Daddy."

John chuckled then. "I suppose so. But that's 'cause I use my guns a lot and I clean 'em a lot too. You take care of what's important to you, son. Don't let anyone tell ya different."

Dean nodded and stood up a little straighter, "Yes, sir,"

That was the summer John took him out to go shooting for the first time.

Dean carried the gun carefully to the field. Checked and rechecked to see if it was loaded. Lifted it to his shoulder and fired. It was just cans on a fence but Dean nailed them, everyone.

Dean grinned. "Did ya see, Dad? Did ya see?"

John tousled hair that had only recently turned a shade darker than a towhead.

"Yeah, son, you did good."

John was proud. Dean basked in the pride. The kid blushed, freckles standing out sharply in the morning son.

John was teaching a seven year old how to shoot.

If anyone was going to rot in Hell it was John Winchester.

XXX

There were some hunters who thought that John was only avenging Mary's death. Bobby Singer believed it, and John was pretty sure even Jim did. Deacon, well he wasn't involved in hunting, but he knew the score and as far as Deacon was concerned, hunting down your wife's killer was as natural as breathing. Who was John kidding, he felt sure that even Dean believed vengeance was his top priority.

Dear God, he wished that was true.

It started out that way; John would be the first to admit it. But as much as he loved Mary, the boys were his reason now and his love for them grew and changed and shifted until it eclipsed any vengeance he might've taken for his lost love. They were part of him and part of Mary. He needed to keep them safe, to make them strong, teach them to fight. He had to be strong for them and if that meant they hated him at times, he could deal with that shit. He was their father, not their friend.

Sometimes late at night while the boys were asleep and John indulged in a little more Jack than he should, he could hear Mary in his head. Pissed. Angry at putting their children through this. Sometimes he could even feel his shoulder ache with her punch. John knew she would slug him, she would and his shoulder would feel it for days. She might even bloody his nose; he wouldn't even try to duck…he deserved every punch. He was a shit and an asshole and dick. But Mary wasn't here to help make these choices.

So the Winchesters moved, he hunted, and Dean watched Sam.

The Striga had been a fuck up of monumental proportions. Dean felt guilty and John _let him_ feel guilty. Once again, John was sure there would be a special place in Hell reserved for him. But Sammy had been so small and Dean wasn't following orders. Orders John gave him. John was so pissed it was all he could do not to bust the kid's ass.

Later, he thought that maybe he should have. John's silence was a worse punishment than any ass kicking would have been. That night, after the boys were safe at Jim's and he was back on his way to Fort Douglas, it occurred to him that maybe he was the one who deserved to get his ass kicked.

He had left his boys alone and unprotected while that damn thing was hunting _children_ for Christ's sake. What kind of man does that? What kind of man expects a ten year old to protect a six year old? John just pushed the accelerator to the floor and the Impala growled low.

Second-guessing command decisions was stupid. It did nothing to change the past but he could learn from it. He called Bobby and why the fuck he did that he didn't know. Except John was still learning the ropes and Bobby was an expert on so damn much.

John wasn't surprised to hear Bobby Singer's sharp, "You did _what_?"

The man always had a penchant for cutting to the chase.

John didn't owe Bobby any explanations but that didn't stop him from making his point.

"How 'bout you mind your own business, Singer."

"Those boys are my business."

"That's where you are wrong. They are _my_ business. They are _my_ boys."

"Jesus, John." Bobby spoke low.

There was recrimination and censure in just those words. It should have made John pissed. Well, it did make him pissed, but a part of him understood and a tiny part of him took the rebuke to heart. Bobby cared about his boys, there was no getting around that but, John was never one to take direction well and when it came to his kids he was even less likely to.

So instead, he lashed out. "Why don't you stop being a fucking arm-chair daddy and do your damn job. Give me what you got on the damn Striga so I can kill the son of a bitch."

There was silence on the other line.

"I told you what I had on the damn thing. I'm not your personal encyclopedia of all things supernatural, John."

"Well thanks for the help, Singer." John slammed the pay phone hard and hoped that Bobby felt it all the back in South Dakota.

Who the fuck was Bobby Singer? Who the hell did he think he was? Was that why the boys were at Jim's instead of Bobby's? He didn't want to hear the old coot and his shitty comments. Bobby was always a softy where the boys were concerned. It was a hell of a lot easier to be Uncle Bobby than to be Dad, but John never really let that bother him. The hard calls were his and his alone. John wouldn't trade one day of Dad for a million nights as Uncle Bobby…but in this case John had to reluctantly agree that Bobby might be right. He'd never admit it, not to anyone but John couldn't lie to himself. _He_ had fucked up with the Striga, not Dean. Dean's only fault was that he was a kid. Didn't matter though. Both John and Dean knew that Dean's responsibility was Sam.

That was something that never changed.

XXX

Sammy at seven was a wonder. The kid adored Dean and followed his big brother everywhere. It gave John a little more time to himself. Time to research for anything that could give him the edge on the demon. It also gave him time to sleep. Sleep for John was a precious commodity. It was as much John's issue as having two active boys around.

John slept on high alert – that is never an easy way to get some rest. It was as if he was on duty always. But if Dean was amusing Sam and Sam was hanging out with Dean, well, he could sleep just a little deeper. John trusted Dean to hold down the fort. There was not much better than sleeping in on a Sunday morning, especially after a knockdown, drag out fight on Saturday with a gremlin.

Which is why he woke a little on this side of grumpy one Sunday to find Sammy poking him in the shoulder.

"Daddy, are you awake?"

John opened a slitted eye. The boy looked okay. No blood. No bruises. Just Sammy being Sammy.

"I am now, little man. How 'bout you give me two hours of shut eye and then we can talk." John hoped he didn't sound like he felt. He felt like shit.

"But Daddy, you promised."

John racked his brain on anything that might have been misconstrued as a promise. John didn't promise much; even he knew he could break a promise in a heartbeat. That was why they were few and far between.

"How 'bout you fill me in, buddy. Your old man is, well,_ old_ and I'm not quite sure I remember what I promised."

Sammy sighed. For such a little boy, he had a hell of a sigh.

"Swimming, Dad. You said you would teach me to swim today."

John knew he was tired. Dead beat in fact, but he was pretty sure there was no date for swimming today.

"Sam, dude…I'm pretty sure I didn't say I would teach you to swim today."

"Yes, you did. " Sammy spoke to John slowly, like maybe he was a slightly retarded dog. "You said, 'Sammy when you turn seven and the first warm day that we have access to a pool I'm going to teach you to swim.' That's what you said, Daddy, and I'm seven and this is a warm day and there is a pool. It's everything you said Dad and you promised. "

John almost asked where Dean was. It would have been so easy.

But Sam was seven, it was warm, and damn if this motel didn't have a pool.

John wiped a hand across his two-day old beard, groaned and then sat up. He dropped his feet on the floor and reached for a pair of cut offs that was the only thing he wore as shorts.

"Okay kiddo. Today you learn to swim."

Sam was right and he _had_ promised. Like a fucking year ago. How in the hell did that boy remember something from that long ago? John shook his head then smiled.

Sammy Winchester.

XXX

John was investigating some grave robberies just outside of Windom, Minnesota. It didn't take long for him to figure out that that was the least of the problems going on in Windom. It turned out that there was a Rawhead in the area as well. A Rawhead that had taken to digging up bodies when there were no fresh kids to be had.

The only good part of the equation was that the good folks of Windom had taken to keeping their children inside as of late.

John was thankful his boys were safely stashed with Jim. If he learned anything about that fucking Striga, it was that his children were never going to be around children-killing monsters. John may have been hard headed but he wasn't an idiot.

Minnesota in January was cold enough to freeze the balls off a brass monkey and John would later think that was what slowed him down. It wasn't _just_ that of course. What was supposed routine hunt went FUBAR fast when John realized there were two Rawheads instead of just one.

John berated himself for being a fool. Fucking recon. He would have had Dean doing extra PT for a month for being such a moron. He should have figured out that there were more missing children than one Rawhead could have been attributed to. Grimly, he decided that Dean would have put the pieces together better than he had.

Hell, Sam would have and Sam didn't even know about hunting.

Still, John found it insane that even _another_ Rawhead could love a Rawhead - so foul was the stench of just one. The fact was, the she-Rawhead was worse than the male and that was something he hadn't anticipated. _Once you figured out there were two dickhead, it shouldn't have been too hard to anticipate some kind of bad shit._

Dispatching her mate caused the bitch to become enraged and although not terribly smart, a pissed off Rawhead was a sight to be seen.

And damn if that Pucker Factor that Deacon thought was the God's honest truth in Vietnam made an appearance that day. He was absolutely fucking sure he was going to die and his asshole seemed to agree. At least the boys were with Jim.

He ganked the thing but not before she ripped up his right shoulder clear to the bone. In no way, shape, or form should it be self-treated but John never did like asking for help. It wasn't so much pride as the questions that inevitably surfaced when you came to an emergency room . John tried to suture it himself but he was never all that good at shaky left handed sutures. Two days of hot compresses, liberal splashes of Jack Daniels and whatever antibiotics he had on hand did nothing and his shoulder became infected, which shouldn't have been surprising considering what disgusting shit had probably been under the Rawhead's claws. John drug himself to the nearest hospital, half delirious.

He called it a wolf attack and the hospital staff shook their heads in disbelief.

John sat on a gurney, pissed, cranky and holding his wounded shoulder with his good left hand when Kate Mulligan walked in and efficiently started an IV.

She cocked her head, rolling her eyes at his tale. "A wolf huh?"

John glared. "That's what I said didn't I?"

"There haven't been wolves in this part of Minnesota for years."

"Well, there are now. Can you get a doctor to look at this or what?"

"Of course Mr.…," she glanced at her chart, "Winchester."

John cursed himself for using his real name, damn Rawhead infection. Made a man do stupid shit like reveal exactly who he was.

"Just a little more triage then we'll see where we stand."

"_We_ aren't standing anywhere; I'm sitting on this damn gurney waiting for a doctor." John knew he was being a dick. He didn't much care. Apparently his attitude didn't bother her in the least. She turned her back to him and then faced front with a waggled brow.

"We can do this the easy way or the hard way Mr. Winchester. It all depends on you and if you are going to cooperate." She held up two thermometers…one to put under his tongue and one liberally lubed up and obviously designed for another orifice.

John gulped once and found himself almost at a loss for words.

"Don't worry Nurse Ratched; I'll be a good boy."

John wasn't surprised to find his temperature to be 104. Kate gently looked at the ragged remains of his right shoulder. The bandaged he had used was clean when he put it on but the yellow drainage seeping through was putrid and stank almost as much as the Rawhead itself. John didn't think there was an antibiotic in the world that could save his ass. Despite his resolve when Kate lifted the corner of the dressing the pain seared through his shoulder like a hot poker. He slumped just a bit on the gurney into her arms.

It was the last thing he remembered for two days.

Later Kate would joke about big, tough, former Marine John Winchester fainting like a girl. John had growled low, Winchesters don't faint; although they had been known to black out occasionally. Kate had smiled then and John couldn't help but smile with her.

John went home with Kate Mulligan. He wasn't in love with her, or she him, but he didn't have insurance and still needed help. Kate later admitted she had never taken home a patient before John—and never since either, but for some reason, she and John clicked. John wasn't a saint; after Mary's death he was never at a loss for women, but he never had a relationship either. At the most there were one-night stands in between hunts. He had two kids to take care of there was never time for a woman in the picture.

In Kate he found more than he bargained for. Bright, articulate and as no nonsense as they came. Still, she laughed often and made a mean meatloaf. After a long shift she was always up for a romp under the sheets as long as John was careful.

"Watch those sutures John, I don't want to have to drag your ass back to the hospital." She'd laugh then, blue eyes dancing in her darkened bedroom.

A full month he stayed. He chafed at the boys being with Jim but they were safe and he was healing. He called Jim, said he'd run into a little problem but would be back to Blue Earth as soon as he could. Jim had snorted as if he knew exactly what John was doing. _Damn that man and his intuition._ He'd said as much on the phone but Jim had laughed and said intuition wasn't involved at all, just that he knew John Winchester. It was the closest John ever came to a vacation. When he left, he gave Kate no promises and she asked for none. But he left her his number, in case she ever needed anything.

She never called him. Twelve years later though, their son did.

XXX

John tried to think of when things really changed, when _he _changed. It was easy to say that it was the night Mary died and that would be true. His whole world had changed then. But when Sammy found his journal, his family_ really _changed_._ Before Sammy knew about hunting; it had been hard keeping up appearances. It was hard to juggle keeping Sammy out of the loop. Keeping up pretenses as a traveling salesman wasn't easy. John knew too damn well that Sammy had always been too smart, too eager to connect the dots.

John had insisted on training. Sammy never got why, though, and to be truthful, who would? John played it up as physical fitness and learning to defend yourself. Of course, Dean did it, too, and that made it easier. John didn't justify it though; he was the dad and if Dad said run, well, Sam better run. If Dad said drop and give me twenty, Sam had better snap to. PT was as much a punishment as a necessity and it worked pretty well. Some parents put their kids in time outs, John Winchester sent his boys on three-mile runs.

XXX

John realized that Sam knew about hunting when John returned home after missing Christmas of '91. It wasn't that Christmas was a big holiday for Winchesters but John tried. Calling himself non-religious was clearly a misnomer. John was not only non-religious, he gave less than shit about Christmas. Still, he usually got the boys a few presents and made it a point to be there. Winchester Christmases were more than likely to be celebrated with some Chinese takeout and a football game. Spending time with the boys was important to him though.

It was important to him to be with the boys and he knew it was important to them, too. When he didn't show up, he should have expected Sam would put two and two together. It wasn't intentional, missing that Christmas. Hunts sometimes happened on holidays because evil never took a holiday, religious or otherwise, but in this case what was supposed to be an easy salt and burn and turned into a clusterfuck of monumental proportions. He'd gotten out safely and had torched the thing, but not in time for Christmas.

When he came back, he knew Sam knew. Sometimes his youngest was an open book. When he asked Dean, the boy didn't lie; he couldn't lie to John. John was angry, he had to admit. The journal was private, at least _then_ it was and privacy for all three Winchesters was a valuable commodity. John realized though that it gave him the opportunity to bring it out into the open. John talked to Sam. He didn't mince words but didn't go into every detail either. Instead of Sam going off the deep end, he seemed almost relieved, as if it all started to make sense.

But with Sam's knowledge came Sam's worry. Never an easy sleeper, the boy tossed and turned at night. Ragged dreams and night terrors became usual occurrences. John understood; there was scary shit out there and grown men had been known to cower at some of it. More often than not, John found Sam curled against Dean in the morning. Dean never taunted him on it, which was odd, considering he badgered Sam on everything else.

Sometimes watching them sleep together he could _almost_ believe that things would work out. That he would kill the sonofabitch that killed his wife and then he and the boys could get on with their lives.

But almost didn't count.

XXX

Sam finding the journal wasn't the way he wanted his youngest to find out the truth – if he ever found out at all – but ultimately it was so much easier. There was no more dancing around the subject, and now that Sammy knew the score, John upped the ante. Physically, he was harder on both boys. John really started Sam on guns and knives. Research. Hardcore training and fighting tactics. He drilled them both on weapons and what they needed to know to kill whatever needed killing. Salt, silver, cross-thatched bullets, holy water, sometimes wood. Rowan and ash. Herbs and incantations.

John never really explained why it needed to be done other than there was evil out there and John and the boys needed to kill it. That was never enough for Sam. Sammy always wanted to know _why_. Why everything. On some level, John got it but he didn't have the patience to coddle Sam or explain every fucking detail. Sometimes, Sam just needed to do what John told him to do. Period. Once in a while though, John's gruff, "Figure it out, Sam," was often exactly what Sam needed to hit the research a little harder. A challenge wasn't something Sam Winchester backed down from easily.

Sam never really liked hunting though. He was good, although not as good as Dean. He put in the necessary hours because having John breathing down his neck like a fucking DI worked wonders as incentive. But Sam didn't embrace the life, didn't _need_ it like John and, John was realizing, Dean did. John could feel the tentative hold he had on Sam slipping away sometimes. No matter hard he loved Sam it seemed to make no difference.

Sam knew that John loved him. John had no problem sliding an arm around either boy. A rough tousle to Sammy's long hair. A quick embrace. Once in a while both boys would roughhouse and John would join in leaving them all three of them laughing and a little out of breath.

But John was the first to admit he was tough on both kids. He demanded perfection and that he demanded respect. Dean seemed to get it and Sam did too. Sometimes. Unfortunately, when Sam decided to buck John he seemed to lose all sense of self-preservation. John wouldn't tolerate Sammy and bullshit…something that fact seemed to escape his youngest. It never failed to escalate into a fight that was never going to end well for Sam.

For a smart kid, the boy was sometimes dumber than a rat. Even a rat knew that one way in the maze was cheese and the other was an electrical shock.

XXX

Sammy was so stubborn. That stubborn willful toddler turned into a stubborn willful preteen.

"Dad, why can't I play soccer?" Sammy stood in the living room of their rented house.

"You know why, Sammy. We've got work to do."

"No, Dad _you've_ got work to do. I'm a kid. I've got school and soccer." Sam countered with righteous indignation in every syllable.

"You do what I say you have to do and bow hunting is what you are doing." John dismissed Sam right then and there. It was a done deal.

"Dad, that's not fair." Sam wasn't whining – John wouldn't allow for whining, not even for one second, but Sam wasn't backing down either.

John glowered. The stare should have wilted Sam – it would have worked with Dean but Sam just stood steadfast in the face of his wrath.

"Yeah, well, there's not much shit that's fair. Deal with it." John slammed the book had been reading shut with a finality that should have ended it.

"I've got a team depending on me!" Sam's voice though young was forceful.

"You've got a family depending on you too. Bow hunting is what you'll be doing this weekend."

"You're a dictator! Mussolini could have taken tips from you!"

"That's right. I'm a dictator. Another word and you'll eat your dinner standing up _and_ you won't play soccer for the rest of the season."

That stopped Sam because John didn't make idle threats.

They spent the weekend bow hunting.

Sometimes late at night on a stake out or maybe when he was driving, John would try to reassess, see if he needed to regroup or back off and the answer was always no. He loved Sam and Dean with every ounce of his being. Loving them meant working harder to keep them alive.

The problem was Sam wanted _normal_ and _normal_ was not to be found. Oh, civilians _thought _things were normal but that didn't make it so. Some folks thought that ignorance was bliss, but John could offer a much clearer picture than that.

Ignorance was not bliss; it was death.

That wasn't even a supernatural thing, it was a natural thing. It had been natural with Deacon and Jim in Vietnam and it was real every time some yahoo figured that he didn't need to lock his door at night because he lived in a "safe" neighborhood. Or some girl walked to her car alone after a late night shift at some bar without watching her own back. Or a drunken idiot figured that he could take on some fugly dude in a bar fight.

Fucking ignorance killed everyone, but for a hunter? Well, knowledge could make all the difference in the world. Because, yeah, he was gonna die and it was probably going to be bloody but it wouldn't be without a fight. Fighting blind was stupid, so for John there was always contingencies for contingencies. Teaching his boys how to take care of themselves was as important as breathing. Knowledge had saved his own ass on more than one occasion, so he learned as much as he could. He read everything he could and he listened to hunters like Bobby Singer—he paid attention to hunters who made it through some bad scrapes, and he bided his time.

Death could be hard, fast, brutal or slow. It was usually messy because in John's experience, that was just the nature of things. There were many ways to die and just because you weren't aware of them didn't change the fact that they were there. So Sammy bitched and whined about how he wanted the white picket fence. And his school friends. And sleepovers. And fucking soccer camp. But that was just not going to happen. Even for the people who thought normal was normal.

It was just a lie.

He might lie about some things, even to his boys, but lie about what could kill them?

Not going to happen. Not if he could help it, except life has a crazy way of throwing curve balls when you signal for a fast pitch and there came a time down the road when he lied about that too.

XXX

John taught both boys to fight and to fight dirty. It was a combination of a mutated version of martial arts liberally laced with street fighting.

"Go for the balls if you can boys; that kinda shit will take a man down."

Of course that didn't always work for monsters. Testicular pain didn't necessarily transfer from species to species. But it was as much muscle memory as anything else. Sparring constantly made both boys automatic fighters. John's constant drilling made sure of it.

On a late autumn afternoon, John watched the boys sparring in the back yard. They were pretty damn good. Attack, counter attack, and back again. Suddenly though it deteriorated into a rough and tumble fight. For a moment John thought about intervening. But then he heard both boys giggling and John couldn't help but smile when he heard Sam's indignant, "Dickhead!"

There was a small trickle of blood down at Sam's lip but he obviously could have cared less.

Dean laughed deep and full – when did his kid get so big? Dean was big, strong and effortless when he moved. "Bitch."

Then Sam's counter of "Jerk" and Sam moved in, quick and light. A moment later they were both laughing their asses off and Dean was wiping a tear from his right eye that looked well on the way to swelling shut.

John shut the screen door quietly and grinned. Damn kids.

XXX

John knew he was tough and hard on the boys. As they grew older, they had more responsibilities. More than most kids, hell more than most people. But they were Winchesters and they were tough.

It was justified. _He_ was justified. He was a hard ass and as mean an SOB as Samuel Campbell and Jacob Winchester combined and it didn't bother him at all. He needed his boys alive and sometimes that meant being an asshole. It was that important to him. _They_ were that important to him.

With each passing year and with everything he learned, his vision became clearer. To save Sam and Dean, he had to make them the toughest hunters alive. Then he had to kill the fucker that killed his wife.

Then and only then would his family be safe.

Once in a while Sam or Dean got a bug up their butt and thought they could make decisions on their own. Usually it was Sam, but Dean had been known to jump the gun every so often. John nipped that shit in the bud. He was their CO. He was their father.

_Him_.

The buck stopped at John Winchester and just like in the jungles of Vietnam, his family was depending on him. Didn't matter whether it was Echo 2/1 or Sam and Dean. Any poor choices were his, any good decisions were too. The boys were his responsibility.

He gave the orders. He called the shots. He was walking point for his boys. Just like in 'Nam, hunting was about killing them before they killed you. Same concept; different war. But this time, there was no air support, no cease fire coming down the pipeline…not even the possibility of a peace treaty. It was all about who was going to stop breathing first and John wanted to make sure his boys were on the winning team in that particular game.

It was up to John to decide what was best for his family. Only him.

XXX

If John was a bit of a loner in Vietnam, he was far worse as a hunter. There was a pretty short list of people he would hunt with and an even shorter list of those he let interact with his boys. Jim, Bobby, Caleb, and Jefferson. Once in a while he would introduce them to an occasional stand-up guy. Hell, he didn't even tell them about Ellen and Bill. But in John's estimation, most hunters were nuts and psychopaths; he really didn't even exclude himself in that category, so putting his sons' lives in someone else's hands was just not something he was prepared to do.

So he hunted by himself, something that most hunters chose not to do. It didn't bother John one bit; not having back up meant not having to depend on anyone. Not depending on anyone else made him sharp. It wasn't until Dean was up to snuff and hunting with him that he started two-man hunts.

At first that was almost worse, because he spent more time worrying about Dean and less time focusing on the task at hand. But he learned quickly that Dean was savvy, smart and a good man to have at his back. Dean was born to hunt. The kid was a natural. Sam joined in easy hunts by the time he was fourteen, but just a few salt n' burns. It was one of the few times that Dean bucked John's orders.

"He's too young, Dad…he's just a kid."

"You were younger than him."

"Totally different."

"He's going Dean. That's an order."

And damn if Dean didn't stand there, ass against the quarter panel of the Impala, watching Sam as he was getting a soda at some mom and pop gas station.

"You're wrong." The boy turned to face John, looking a hell of a lot older than eighteen.

"Pardon?" John actually stopped pumping gas. He was that surprised.

"He's not ready. Keep him in research, that's where the geek in him shines anyway." Dean kept his eyes focused on John. Not wavering, but not staring him down either. There was just enough deference that John's automatic reaction to give him a sharp cuff was curbed.

"I think maybe you are under the impression that this family is a democracy." John let the pump sit in the Impala's gas tank and straightened up to his full height. He didn't step toward Dean but he didn't need to.

Dean continued to hold his gaze, "No, sir."

"Then it's settled. Next easy hunt, Sammy comes with us."

Dean nodded.

"And Dean?" John turned back to pumping gas. "Don't second guess me again."

Dean didn't answer and that was answer enough.

XXX

John could hear the boys fighting in the other room. They'd stopped in some hotel just south of Omaha, and the noise they were making deadened even the rush of his shower.

They fought a lot these days, usually over dumb shit like the remote control or whose turn it was to do the laundry, but real fighting? That usually only happened when John wasn't around. There would be a telltale black eye or an occasional split lip. Sometimes John called them on it and they explained it off as a missed pulled punch. But John knew better. His boys knew how to spar and seldom did anyone ever get hurt. It was okay to fight in John's book – in fact, it was actually encouraged – but John didn't hold with his boys trying to kill each other, something they could both probably do, especially now that Sammy was fifteen and Dean nineteen.

Dean was stronger, but Sammy was as slippery as an eel and he knew all Dean's moves, mostly because Dean had taught them to him. From the sounds of it they were turning the motel room into World War III.

"Boys!" John bellowed from the bathroom, wrapping a towel around his waist and opening the bathroom door, steam billowing out around him. Finally, a nice hot shower and his two miscreants were fucking up his ten minutes of bliss.

He didn't even bother to towel off his hair, water dripped on the floor causing an instant squishy puddle in the gray non-descript carpet.

Normally, when John yelled like that that whatever was going on stopped abruptly; in this case though, it didn't seem to faze either kid. They were standing toe-to-toe in a clinch where Dean was able to hold Sammy effectively. Sam however was pummeling Dean with hard sharp hooks to the belly. If John had to guess, he was going for Dean's liver. In which case, Sam really wanted to hurt Dean. Sam was deceptively strong. John knew that and could tell whatever patience Dean might have had was pretty much gone.

It was only a split second but John could see that Dean was going for a throw-down and before John could react, Sam was on his back, hard, on the floor.

"Tap out, shithead." Dean growled low. It wasn't a request.

Sam's only remark to that was to struggle more. "Fuck you."

John moved now – three long steps to Dean where he pulled him off of Sam. To John's amazement, Dean actually kept coming. Sam made another attempt to step back into Dean's space but John managed to maneuver himself between Dean and Sam.

Sam seemed to ignore the fact that his father was standing between him and his brother. John saw the punch coming but couldn't move, otherwise Sam would have hit Dean. Sammy nailed John a hard uppercut to the jaw. Sam didn't have the reach to do much damage but John felt the power behind the punch.

Now _that_ would leave a mark.

A rush of both pride and anger washed over John and then he was dragging Sam bodily away from Dean.

"STAND DOWN!" John roared and that seemed to do the trick.

Both boys stood facing off with John in between, both breathing hard and still glaring at each other.

"What the _fuck_ is the problem?"

Neither boy answered. Both red faced and panting. Not out of breath from the exertion but more from adrenalin.

"I asked you both a question." John demanded, shifting his gaze from Dean to Sam to Dean again.

Silence.

John had less patience than either Sam or Dean combined. Considering he was standing in just a towel in their motel room, physical intimidation seemed a little harder to come by. However, something must have worked because Dean answered.

"Nothing, Dad."

But the kid never moved his gaze from Sam. Sam never stopped eyeballing Dean.

In was an impasse of sorts.

"Nothing huh? Yeah, well this nothin' just earned you both five miles. Maybe you can burn up a little of the obvious excess energy that caused you two to think this motel is a WWW ring. But first police this fuckin' room and get it squared away."

There was still silence.

"You hear me?" John's voice dropped a notch. He meant business.

"Yes, sir." Tandem voices.

John ran a hand through his sopping wet hair and turned back into the bathroom. Then over his shoulder, "Sam, bring me back some ice first – seems I walked into somebody's punch. Which, by the way, better not happen again."

Sam mumbled a yes, sir. John toggled his chin once or twice and then headed back to the shower. Damn kids.

John never did find out what the boys were fighting about. Sometimes he just had to throw that shit out there and hope for the best.

XXX

John was hunting a pod of water sprites when Dean called him.

"Sammy's gone, Dad."

"What do ya mean, he's gone? "

"Gone, Dad. He's…" John could hear the tremor in Dean's voice, "…lost."

John could barely keep it together. Sammy gone? Shit, shit and then a quick prayer to a God he didn't believe in anyway. John tried to keep his heart from racing.

The demon. It had to be the demon. John took another quick breath. Centered himself. It would do any good for him, Dean or even Sam if he couldn't get his shit together.

"Well fuckin' find him then." He growled low.

"Dad, I've looked. Friends. Hangouts. The bus station. The library. I even checked at the damn police station, hospital and…" Dean stuttered, his voice shaking. "…even the morgue. Dad he's not here."

"_Jesus_, Dean. What the hell happened? Sulfur? EMF? Didja see anything? Damn it, Dean."

"I dunno, I just came home from work and he was gone. His duffel, some clothes. I think he ran away."

"Ran away? He's not a God damned dog, Dean."

"Dad I…."

"I'm leaving now, but shit, I'm a half a day away. You find your brother, you hear?"

There was silence then, damn if John didn't know any better he'd swear Dean was crying.

"DEAN. DEAN! C'mon, boy, talk to me."

Then lower, almost hushed. "It was nothing supernatural, Dad. He just left."

"I'm going to kick his ass from here to Richmond, I swear to God." John rumbled low.

Dean didn't seem to hear, didn't seem to understand, he was so wrapped up in himself.

Oddly enough, Dean who always confident and cocky and self assured stuttered, "What…what if I can't, Dad? What if I can't find him?"

"You find him, Dean. That's an order."

John did wait for the yes, sir. He needed to hear it. Dean needed to say it.

"Yes, sir."

XXX

John roared the Impala down highway 66. He was so mad. He couldn't remember a time when he was so mad.

Dean had one job to do. One. Job. That was to watch Sam. To make sure Sam didn't go off on one of his emo bullshit tantrums while John worked a job. If anything happened to Sam, John would never forgive himself. He knew Dean would never forgive himself either which is exactly how he expected it to be. Dean knew he had fucked up and John was counting on that.

He hit the motel room hard and met Dean almost as roughly.

"You heard anything yet?"

"This morning. I think he was seen on Highway 40."

"Forty? Today?"

"No, sir. The day he left. I just found out about it today."

"So what have you been doing for the past three days?"

"I've been looking for him, Dad. Where were you?"

John stepped up to Dean. The kid was big and strong and nineteen but he was nothing compared to John. John didn't make it a habit of hitting his kids. A spanked ass once in a while, a solid cuff when one or the other was being a little shit. But he didn't punch his boys. He could feel his hand tense into a fist.

It would be so easy.

Dean didn't try to run, just lifted his chin as if to say, _Right here old man_ and John thought about it. Dear God, he thought about hitting his boy, but for all the shit that John did, he didn't beat on his kids. It wasn't even Mary's voice in his head offering the rebuke, it was his own.

He was mad. Rage had clouded his vision before but not when it came to his boys.

When it came to monsters or even other people, but not Sammy and not Dean.

He took a deep breath and then grabbed Dean hard by the shirt. He shook him once, like a terrier with a rat and then dropped him hard.

"Get your shit together, we leave in ten."

Dean found Sam in Flagstaff of all places. With a fucking dog. John was glad Dean found him first. Because John probably would have whaled on his ass – right there in the fucking parking lot.

But when he saw Sam, yapping about that damn dog and grinning from ear to ear about his fucking two-week adventure, then Dean's easy grin as he threw an arm over his little brother, a lump caught in his throat.

Sammy was okay. His boy was okay.

Never again. He wasn't going to lose Sam again.

XXX

Of course saying that and the truth didn't always jive.

Sam's leaving for college was hard on John. All John thought about was how Sam wasn't protected. How he was vulnerable. And shit, that demon could get him as well as any other supernatural thing out there.

He trusted that Sam could take care of himself for the most part. Sammy was smart and strong and John knew damn well his boy had spent far too long hunting to ignore everything John had taught him. Besides, despite the Winchester War that went down when Sammy left, John made sure he watched out for him. He swung by Palo Alto when he could. He kept tabs on the kid. While he couldn't say he came to terms with Sam and his self-imposed exile, he learned to live with it.

Dean though, not so much.

John figured it would be harder for Dean. There was a shift in dynamics, in tactics, in everything really. Instead of a three-man team, they were two. Hunting wise, it was an adjustment, having Sam made hunts easier in a lot of ways. The kid was good with a gun, great in research, and as solid as they came when on a hunt. But if hunting had been the only problem, he could have handled it. The problem wasn't Sam.

The problem was Dean.

The kid went off the skids for a bit. Like a slow rolling freight train heading downhill. He gathered impulsion with every fuck up. Dean drank too much. Dean fucked too much, and sometimes, well, he didn't come home at all. John let it happen; he watched Dean flounder and let it go. John understood – up to a point - but he'd already lost one son and there was no way he was going to lose another.

One night after Dean staggered in just this side of drunker than a barrel full of monkeys, John called him on it.

They were living in a cheap apartment just outside of Memphis and John was waiting in the darkened shadows of the living room.

"Welcome home, son." John rumbled ominously.

Dean stood, weaving heavily in the dark.

"Dad." Dean didn't sound angry or worried. Simply stating a fact.

"End of the drama, Dean. This was your last night out."

Dean muzzily looked at John, a bewildered expression filtering through the shadows in the living room on his face. "You groundin' me?"

John stood quietly for a moment.

"It appears so."

Dean made an effort to stand straighter. It wasn't entirely successful.

"Can't ground me, 'm twenty-two." Then to make sure that John completely understood he held both hands up in identical peace signs. It was impressive really because how the kid didn't manage to fall over was anyone's guess.

"Well, I just did. Hit the rack, we'll talk in the morning." John's voice was quiet and low but it was an order and Dean knew it.

Dean shook his head stubbornly. That was almost his undoing – the motion causing him to sway horribly to the right. If not for John's quick reaction his kid would have face planted right there in the living room.

But John caught him before he hit the floor, Dean's entire weight sagging onto John. John moved an arm behind Dean's back and hefted him by his belt then stagger-stepped him into Dean's room. The boy hit the bed with a moan and a sniffle and a second later was snoring.

John pulled off Dean's boots and situated him in what appeared to be the most comfortable position. It was hard to tell but Dean didn't seem to mind.

He stood and watched for a few minutes. His eyes were accustomed to the dark and the moon was bright. The soft moonlight spilled through the dirty window across Dean's face. Except for the dark circles under his eyes and the slight scruff on his chin he looked all of sixteen, his face slack with alcohol and sleep.

The boy's freckles stood out sharply in the light and made him look even younger. John resisted the urge to run his hand through Dean's hair, muss it up even more than it was. Instead, he went to the bathroom, grabbed a cool towel and draped it over Dean's forehead and then dropped a hand to his son's shoulder.

It was the best he could do.

XXX

Tightening the reins worked. John knew it would; if there was anything that Dean responded to other than Sam it was a job and an order. Which was odd, considering the only authority he cared about was John. John supposed in terms of being a father, he was the exact opposite of Dr. Spock and permissive parenting. But it worked. Dean logged a lot of punishment miles the fall that Sammy left. He spent a good amount of time doing pushups too. But Dean never resented it; in fact, John sometimes thought the boy pushed the envelope just to get caught. It kept Dean busy, and watching Dean kept John busy, too.

All the time, though, John kept feelers out on the demon. He worked late into the night after Dean was exhausted and asleep – usually after a tough day at Winchester Boot Camp. John thought back on his days in the Marines and collapsing in his bunk at night so exhausted that he didn't even dream. The Marines had a pretty good handle on turning boys full of piss and vinegar into men. John figured if it wasn't broke, why fix it? When John would check on him at night, the boy's even deep breathing indicated a kid too tired to do more than take advantage of his bed.

Eventually though, it all evened out and they fell into an easy camaraderie where John still called the shots but he allowed Dean to start working a bit on his own. Dean had proved he could do it and John had to admit that the kid earned it. He was scary good as a hunter and fitter than he had ever been. At first it was a few easy hunts here and there. Dean jumped at the chance to hunt alone. He probably couldn't wait to get out from under John's thumb and John got that.

Sometimes John imagined what Dean would do when the job was done and how much damage it might cost them both. The boy was randier than a stud colt, and as ornery, too, but he wasn't a little boy anymore and John had to trust that twenty-three years of John Winchester training would pay off in the long run.

Besides, John kept tabs on him. Just like he kept tabs on Sam. They may have thought they were independent kids and John supposed to an extent they were, but it was mostly an illusion. As long as John Winchester was alive, he would be watching out for his boys.

Dean would come back home after a hunt sometimes a little rougher than he left, but clear in his debrief and often adding to the journal. It made a man proud.

Dean hunting solo gave John some time to check up on Sammy too. He never drove the Impala; she was Dean's car now anyway. There was no way that Sam wouldn't hear that car and know that John wasn't around. John tried to convince himself that other parents might be doing the same thing, but he knew that wasn't the case every time he saw a mother or father embrace their son or daughter. He stood in the shadows and watched as Sam walked to class or saw him laughing with a group of boys. Once he saw him with a beautiful blond girl. Then, because he was John Winchester, that wasn't enough, he broke into Sam's apartment and was relieved to see salt lines and sigils. He really hadn't expected anything less but the proof was good to have.

Four years. Four years and nothing from Sam. He knew he spoke to Dean and they relayed messages back and forth. Sort of. Neither John nor Sam was willing to actually talk about the day he left but neither one seemed to be really angry anymore either. It was more of an uneasy truce. A reluctant and non-verbal agreement that neither one wanted to admit to being wrong.

There was no doubt that Sammy had inherited both Mary and John's stubborn genes. It was a combination that made him tougher than either individually.

XXX

John sent Dean to New Orleans.

Simple case, really, but it got Dean away from him when John finally hit pay dirt. He had a trail to follow now, convoluted to be sure but clear as day as far as John was concerned. John was like a fucking bloodhound when it came to following a scent.

He wanted Dean nowhere around this yellow-eyed demon. This was something John needed to handle on his own. He figured Dean would go to Sam once he realized that John had slipped off the grid. Whether Sam would leave with Dean? That was the variable in the equation, and it was a chance he had to take.

John's gamble paid off and Sam and Dean were back together again.

It bothered John to leave Dean with nothing but the Impala and a trunk full of weapons, but it was the only way for him to do it. Send the boy off on a hunt and then run as fast as possible in the opposite direction. He had to cut every tie and do it quick and merciless. The boys were safer without him. They were safer not being anywhere around the demon.

John couldn't help but feel a sense of relief to know that Sam and Dean were together again. Both that Sam was back with Dean and that Dean had Sam. Sam and Dean were ying and yang. Neither as good on their own as they were together, and they complimented each other perfectly on a hunt.

He hadn't counted on Sam's girl dying like Mary had; that hadn't even crossed his mind. For that he was pissed. Pissed at himself for not putting the pattern together, pissed he hadn't been able to save Jessica. Most of all, though, he was pissed that Sam had to go through what he'd gone through. John would have done _anything_ to have been able to keep his boys from that kind of pain.

John knew the boys wanted him, needed him, even, but it wasn't something he could do. Going to them when Dean called from Lawrence, when Sam called about the fucking Rawhead getting Dean, _God_ he wanted to. It killed him that he didn't. But he was so close now…. If he had gone, it could have lead Azazel straight to Sam and Dean. And if it was the last thing he did, he was going to deny that bastard his children.

So when he felt it safe enough, he sent them on their own hunts, comfortable that Dean would lead and Sam would follow. His saved their messages, even as the pain skittering through their voices broke against his heart. He listened when he needed them close, and he found ways to keep them busy. Keep moving, keep alive. If they were together, he knew they'd be safe.

And if they were safe, then John could follow the signs, find this yellow-eyed bastard, and_ finish this._ He'd find them again when it was done. This was just the beginning of the end.

There was comfort in that.

end


End file.
